


weakness

by novoaa1



Series: natasha tries not to do "feelings" (the operative word here being 'tries') [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/F, Natasha Romanov Has Issues, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, POV Natasha Romanov, Red Room (Marvel), and realizing some stuff about herself, and slowly accepting that, but shes into wanda, its like another character study thing, natasha gets introspective, so thats exciting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 05:01:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19125106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: Natasha's thoughts about the most recent developments with Wanda.Kind of another character study.





	weakness

**Author's Note:**

> this was kinda just bouncing around in my head idk... so uh here it is

It’s not that Natasha doesn’t believe in love, per se—rather, it’s simply that she doesn’t believe in love as an even semi-realistic possibility for _herself_. Ever.

 

Because, she’s seen the way Tony looks at Steve, the twinkle in Bruce’s eyes when Betty is even remotely near him, the lengths Clint will go to to ensure he never leaves Laura and Cooper and Lila and Nathaniel without a father. 

 

She’s seen that, and she knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she’d be an utter fool to claim that the concept of love is a categorical falsehood, because it really, really isn’t. 

 

What’s more, it’s not just her teammates; she’s seen it time and time again: people willing to kill and be killed for the ones they hold dear, for sisters and brothers and wives and boyfriends, for the ones that make life worth living because without them there wouldn’t be much of a goddamned point. 

 

But, Natasha? She doesn’t have that. She doesn’t know that she ever has. 

 

(If she did, she most certainly can’t remember it.)

 

And truthfully, she’s never thought of it as a bad thing—sure, sometimes she wished for that kind of love, the kind that seemed to make the world stop and time stand still, the kind that eclipsed all else in its consummate radiance, the kind that made people stupid enough to make deals they shouldn’t and forget to watch their backs and get themselves killed for the fatal crime of loving another person more than they loved life itself. 

 

But, at the end of it all, she figured she was better off—the Red Room taught her that “Love is weakness,” and sure, maybe they were quite off their rocker about a lot of things, like Mother Russia being superior and their beloved empire being invincible and their legacy being one that would never die. 

 

Like many parents, they were wrong about a great deal—but, not about everything. Not about love. 

 

Sure, love is incredible—Natasha wouldn’t know, of course, but anything that can make Clint forget his training for a kinded-hearted woman with stars in her eyes and Bruce smile so wide without a care in the world when Betty walks past is probably something that’s pretty fucking magnificent. 

 

And still, love breeds weakness—love _itself_ is weakness. 

 

Clint has a hell of a lot more to lose now than he ever has before—Bruce and Tony and Steve, too. 

 

The number of things that can hurt them is growing exponentially with every person they let through their walls, with every smile they flash to a new acquaintance, with every baby that’s born with the surname of their predecessor. 

 

Because, it’s not just Laura who Clint gains as a weakness—it’s her and her family and the people she’s known and every goddamned person she’s ever loved, not even to mention the three adorable children they’ve already sired to live out their lives under their parents’ meticulous protection and guidance. 

 

Suddenly, Steve isn’t made weak by just _his_ past anymore, or the bridges _he’s_ built in the present—he’s made weak by Tony’s bridges and Tony’s love, too, by every single person in Tony’s past and present and future whom he’s ever felt or will feel even the tiniest modicum of affection towards. 

 

And, maybe Natasha isn’t exempt—maybe she never has been. 

 

But, she’d like to believe that the way she loves Tony and Steve and Laura and Clint—that it’s sensible, in a way, even though love seldom ever is. 

 

She’d like to believe that with the world hanging in the balance, she won’t condemn it for _them_ , for the people she’s grown to love throughout the years… Because, after everything, that’s the ultimate danger: how far you’re willing to take it. 

 

People physically recoil at the idea that every life has a price tag (even though the very laws and governmental structure of every country are based on that precise ideal, even if no one will say it aloud)—and maybe it’s a rather gauche way to think of it all, but no matter how far onto the side of moral good the majority of the population would like to claim they exist within, it still remains something of a unequivocal reality: that some lives aren’t worth as much as others. 

 

Prison systems, survivors’ benefits after a loss, the death penalty—all proof that each life is not inherently equal unto the other. (Or, at least, that that’s the macabre frame of reference that the billions of people on planet Earth submit themselves unto.) 

 

Natasha knows this—she always has. And, as people grow older and wiser and inevitably more cynical, they realize that, too (at least, to a certain degree). 

 

But, love flagrantly tips the scales—well, actually, love takes a hammer and demolishes those scales entirely. 

 

Suddenly your perspective is shot, your objectivity gone—because in the blink of an eye, the person you love doesn’t have a price tag anymore, and if they did, the number would be something obscene, like millions of billions of dollars (more money than the world conceivably has), because that’s how much they mean to you: the world, and then some. 

 

And yes, there is a reason why she’s harping on about love and perspective and the worth of a life—unfortunately, that reason is Wanda Maximoff. 

 

It isn’t supposed to be a 'thing.’ No, actually, it’s _not_ a ‘thing.' It’s just sex. No ‘thing.’

 

So then, why does it _feel_ like a ‘thing’?

 

(Whatever it is, it’s making her head hurt.)

 

Why does it feel a ‘thing,’ late at night after she's brought Wanda twice to climax on the Quinjet, when she’s in bed clenching her thighs together in some desperate attempt to quell the burning arousal deep in her gut because as hard as she tries, it just won’t go away? 

 

And speaking of the whole ‘Quinjet’ encounter, why did she get on her knees? _Again?_

 

And perhaps even more pressing, why did it feel so _good?_

 

Why did it feel like she was moments away from her own climax as she lapped at Wanda’s oversensitive folds, as the girl writhed and moaned above her and Natasha felt positively overcome with sheer pleasure at the mere sight?

 

Why did she _care_ so goddamned much about Wanda’s pleasure, about satiating the young witch's desire, about being ‘good’ for her when Natasha had nothing material to gain from doing so?

 

She’s not a mark, and there’s no mission, no information to retrieve—so, why? 

 

The most logical response, of course, is that it’s a sort of submission she craves (though seemingly only for Wanda, of all people), an inherent desire to please that draws her to her knees, that makes her work to pleasure Wanda in every way she knows how—because, at the end of it all, she wants to do _well_. For _her_. 

 

Natasha loathes that reality like nothing else. 

 

It’s the first time she can remember wanting for something, _craving_ after something in such a carnal fashion—and of all things, it’s submission. To Wanda. 

 

Of all things, it’s _weakness_ that she desires—weakness for someone else, and at her own expense, no less. 

 

It’s not love, and she knows that, but it’s dangerous just the same. 

 

Weakness is weakness, and Natasha is not _weak_ —she never has been.

 

And yet, somehow, Wanda is changing that—what’s worse, too, is that she’s not even _trying_. 

 

No, Natasha is crumbling all on her own, willingly falling into the age-old trap of _caring_ just like Bruce and Steve and Tony and all the rest of them; it’s crippling in an entirely new way, _terrifying_ on a level she’s not quite familiar with. 

 

The Red Room most certainly didn’t prepare her for this. 

 

(She’s not quite sure anything possibly could have.) 

 

— —

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you think? :)
> 
> also here’s the link to my 


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